Ten Genres
by Saphira112
Summary: A more elaborate take on the ten-genre meme. Mostly Lavi-centric, hints at Lavi/Kanda, occasionally a Lavi/Allen. Rating may go up.


**A/N: **Hey, all! This was original a ten-word meme, where you took ten genres and wrote ten words to em. Welllll, I sorta went over the top and wrote juuuuust a bit more. Hope there's minimal OOCness and weirdness. I write these at midnight now, you see... So chapter one is up! Note that this one hints heavily at Lavi/Kanda and none of these are connected in the future in any way, shape, or form. And yes. They're short. They were _supposed _to be shorter... -shot- Anyways, enjoy!

Genre One

Angst

When he looked at bookcases now, layered with varying degrees of philosophy, history, and biographies, he wondered why he had seen them as such tall entities that shelved the knowledge he wanted, holding it so far out of reach of his tiny hand. In the past, he had to stand on stools and chairs to reach higher shelves, and had fallen a few times. Caused quite the fuss, he had, whenever that happened. And those damned books on the top nine shelves (yes, he counted, and yes, the bookcases each held fifteen shelves' worth) would always be out of his reach. The librarian would always be wary when checking out to him, since he wasn't of the Clan, genetically or otherwise; he stayed in a hole of a room no one used, away from people, just reading. He wasn't given food directly; rather, he scrapped it up when he could. It was better than nothing.

He never really asked for anything, since he spent most of his life between bookcases, under tables, or by windows. The librarian couldn't kick him out because of misconduct or otherwise; she was forced to let him stay because all he did was sit in a corner all night, reading by candlelight. He always had an available record, or occasionally it was a work from Shakespeare, but mostly it had to do with different kinds of philosophy and definitely history, since that was the majority of the library's contents anyway.

And that was how he caught the eye of Bookman. The old man had returned to give his latest record for the private restricted section of the library after having been gone for a few years. The librarian had let him place it where he meant to, since only he could access the records anyway. After emerging, he noticed the small boy sitting by the large window overlook. One of the screens was open. Startlingly bright red hair, a single visible green eye (the other was covered by a patch that wound two strings over the bridge of his nose). He was concentrated on a rather thick book, leather-bound and very old, and the child was holding it carefully. He was probably no older than five or six, yet he was reading what looked to be a very complex book.

The librarian sighed, waving his hand. "He's been in here everyday. Reads everything in sight. What would you have me do, Bookman?"

"Where did he come from?" the old man asked, studying the boy as he turned the page. The page was old and tattered and the youngster turned it rather quickly, but it didn't tear.

"He was picked up somewhere, not sure where. He's just... well, here," the librarian replied, shrugging. "Even I'm not sure."

Bookman walked over to the boy, stopping in front of him. The boy didn't look up; he was used to being approached by older kids, who tended to push him around. He didn't care. He just wanted to read. "What is your name, boy?"

"Don't have one," was the reply as another page was turned. The boy hadn't even looked up. He seemed engrossed in reading. Perhaps...

"Do you enjoy reading?" Bookman peered down at the redhead. Something about this child seemed different. He was young, but that green eye looked very old.

"Not particularly," he said, then stopped and looked straight up into the older eyes before him. "It's so one-sided. It's annoying."

Well, well, well, what did he have here? The child didn't seem to know who Bookman was, since he wasn't cautious around him; he treated the aged man before him like everyone else. Impassive. Something to that accord. It was flat out truth he spoke, without skipping a beat, without any careful planning. Even Bookman could see that. The child had just answered a question, and Bookman idly wondered whether the child had been asked such a question before.

"Then why do you read it?" the old man asked.

"Not allowed to read anything else," the redhead replied nonchalantly, then fiddled with a few stray bangs that fell in front of his face, over his uncovered eye. Bookman was disappointed with that answer. He read biased things because he didn't have anything else?

"I mean, it's not like it's gut-wrenching awful, but having only one person's side of the main story is aggravating," the boy went on absentmindedly, still working on getting his bangs out of his face; he needed a haircut. "It's so biased. Wish they'd get both sides of it in before they publish it; that way people would know how something like a war started based on two sides instead of one. Then people wouldn't be so stupid and go off based on one perspective. People are stupid." Now he was pouting, fixed on his hair, but he obviously hadn't forgotten the man before him.

"Are you an exception to that statement?" Bookman asked. Was this child completely arrogant? Or was his insight just that good?

"Why would I be?" the redhead asked, stopping his hands and looking straight into the intense, narrowed eyes of the old man. "I can believe I'm better than people outside these four walls, but that doesn't make it true. Break it down to the bones and I have the same potential to be as stupid, arrogant, and power-hungry as everyone else."

"So why aren't you like that already?"

The redhead shrugged and held up the book. "I read." And that explained it all.

Lavi now looked at bookshelves, wondering why he thought they were so full of knowledge he couldn't reach. From a young age, the books he could reach never satisfied him; they left him empty inside because they weren't what he was looking for. Since he became the old man's apprentice, he'd seen things and heard things he would never find in a book on the fifteenth shelf in the library. The knowledge he'd longed for was filling him up in his travels under Bookman's guidance, history not revealed to any outsiders was taking up space in his memory and he loved every minute of it.

So why was it, he wondered as he rose into a sitting position on the mattress, that it hurt so much? The redhead glanced to the sleeping person taking up the other half of the bed; long black tresses stretched out like tendrils over the pillow, a slightly tan face flickered in dying candlelight, strong lungs taking in deep breaths, holding them for a moment, then releasing them without a sound. Lavi always liked watching Kanda sleep; the stoic samurai seemed more relaxed, serene, and in this fading light from a candle that had burned too long... he looked beautiful.

_'Yuu... why do you make it hurt so much?'_


End file.
